Chapter 13 - The Encounter on Michigan Avenue
The afternoon traffic on Michigan Avenue crawled at a frustrating pace, but inside the tinted sanctuary of Damian’s armored Maybach, the noise of the city felt miles away.
We were parked three blocks down from Vanguard Capital’s sleek, glass-fronted regional headquarters. Through the tinted window, I watched the steady stream of high-priced consultants, corporate lawyers, and ambitious executives stepping through the revolving brass doors.
"Are you sure you want to come inside with me, Natalie?" Damian asked softly, turning his head to look at me, his hand resting gently over mine on the center console. "We can handle this through Julian and the legal team. You don't need to look at her face if you don't want to."
I turned to him, offering a calm, reassuring smile. "Damian, I stopped running from my past the day I walked into your office three years ago. Madison thinks she can hide behind corporate lawyers and shell companies. It’s time she learned that some doors don't open just because you knock twice."
Damian’s lips curved into a slow, approving smile. He leaned over, pressing a tender kiss to my forehead. "My queen. Never change."
We stepped out of the car together. The summer heat hit us instantly, but as we walked side-by-side toward the entrance of Vanguard Capital, the parting crowd of pedestrians made way for us instinctively. Damian’s quiet, commanding presence combined with my own unshakeable composure drew respectful, cautious glances from everyone we passed.
Inside the grand marble lobby, the receptionist looked up from her computer, her polite corporate smile freezing in place as she recognized Damian DeLuca.
"Mr... Mr. DeLuca," she stammered, standing up quickly. "I—I wasn't aware you had an appointment."
"I don't," Damian said smoothly, his voice dropping into that rich, velvet baritone that commanded absolute obedience. "Inform Mr. Harrison and his special legal consultant, Ms. Sterling, that the founders of the Ava DeLuca Foundation are downstairs in the lobby, and we’d prefer not to disturb their other tenants by walking unannounced up to the executive floor."
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The receptionist didn't hesitate. Her fingers flew across her keyboard, and within ten seconds, her phone buzzed. She picked it up, listened for a second, and looked up with a pale, nervous expression.
"Penthouse conference room B," she whispered. "Take the private elevator on the left."
